History Paints Strange Portraits
by Killpurakat
Summary: Short story focusing on Slytherin himself and how history might have gotten everything wrong. Just one of those "another point of view" fics, because I hate the idea of anything being labeled as "totally good" or "totally evil." Major angst.


History Paints Strange Portraits

By: Kami

For: LS-Sama

* * *

I had this idea ever since the Chamber of Secrets. I rather hate anyone being portrayed as either totally good or totally evil, and for the most part it seems that Gryffindor is talked about like a true hero and Slytherin gets the shaft. I don't like this, as previously stated. So this is a story about the four of the founders of Hogwarts and how history may have gotten it wrong.

I really, really dislike how this came out. Not because of the writing or anything, but because I felt I rushed it. This story should probably be much longer, but it was written in February of 2006 for Lunaludus's B-day (very popular theme for me), and it gets the point across. Beware the angst!

* * *

He growled as he entered his chambers. His secret chambers. Snakes scuttled out of his path; to anyone who could read a snake's expression, this band of reptiles looked worried, nervous… almost afraid. Not of the man stalking to the far wall where a giant egg lay on a bed of hay—the snakes never feared _him_. But they did fear _for_ him.

He slowed as he neared the egg, finally close enough to lean his face and hands on its pearly-white shell. All at once, the tension fled, and the man against the egg looked tired and old. The snakes slithered closer, circling the man and egg, a few daring to crawl up the his before darting off. It was their way of offering comfort.

"_Another one…"_ the man whispered in a hissing language, and his voice cracked. He lifted his head away from the egg and twin streams of tears leaked from his eyes. _"Another student, dead."_

The snakes pressed closer to him, now, unable to bear the sorrow that surrounded the man like a vapor. One bold white cobra wrapped itself about his shoulders and neck, rubbing its head against his cheek in a cat-like manner. It spoke back, its voice an odd mixture of female and male.

"_But the project will help,"_ the snake said, lashing its tongue against the man's cheek. _"It must, and it will."_

Other snakes chimed in, their hissing filling the chambers and making a sound like the tides of an ocean. _"The project will help. The project will help."_

The man nodded. _"Yes."_ He stood a little straighter, hope returning to his person. His reptilian friends always gave him his hope back, even after events like today's.

He untangled the snakes from his body, dashed the tears from his eyes, and got to work checking the egg.

The shell wasn't as hard as he would have liked, and the temperature of the room was a bit chilly for the snakes. He pulled out his wand—twelve inches, willow, with a phoenix feather for its core—and lit seven tiny fires around the room. The fires were well away from the straw on the floor, and burned a magical blue. Their heat soon penetrated the stone room, making the area far more pleasant.

The man glanced about, satisfied the charms of the room would extinguish the fires if they suddenly blazed out of control. He needed to get back to teaching, but that girl's face still haunted him. He had needed to come down here, if only for a few moments, or he felt like he would have broken down in front of the whole school.

He exited his chambers carefully. None of the other teachers knew of those rooms—_his_ rooms—and doubtlessly they would not approve of them… or of what lay inside them.

He knew they saw him as weak, eccentric. He cared not.

Rather unfortunately for him, he ran into Godric first.

Gryffindor smiled brightly. "Hello, Salazar. Beautiful day, today. Excellent day for a field trip, wouldn't you say?"

Salazar nodded, biting back hostile words and swallowing bile. Was he the only one? Were none of the others woken by hellish nightmares of dead students, of current students' accusing faces? "Yes, it is a nice day," he managed to spit out.

Godric's eyebrows raised at the hostile tone and his gaze hardened. "You're not still thinking of that girl, are you?" he asked, caution edging his voice.

Salazar said nothing.

Godric grimaced. "Look, you can't protect every student who comes through these halls, nor should you. The girl was a coward, anyway"—Godric was turned away, looking at a tapestry on the wall, and didn't see the anger that shot through Salazar's eyes—"and did poorly in her studies. You shouldn't bother yourself over one student that didn't want to be here."

Salazar said nothing, merely nodded, his former sadness now transformed into anger and hatred. He curtly excused himself from Godric's presence and stalked off to his next class. Maybe he _was_ the only one who felt anything.

On his way, he bumped into Rowena, quite literally. A shower of books fell upon both professors. Rowena let out an "Eep!" of surprise and started to pick the books back up. "So sorry, Salazar, so sorry!" There were too many books for one woman to carry and watch where she was going, and since he hadn't been too aware of his surroundings either…

"Not your fault, Rowena," he replied. "I should have been watching where I was going." She shook her head, picking up more books and mumbling about it being her fault. "Let me help you with these," he offered.

"Oh, thank you!" she smiled and quickly formed two easily manageable piles of tomes. "But don't you have a class to teach soon?" she inquired, peering at him with a worried expression.

"Just walking about to clear my head." He tried to brush off her concern, but that was the problem with Rowena. Though she was a ditz at times because her mind was involved with a magic spell or potion and unaware of her surroundings, she was smart. Damn smart, and able to read most people like her precious books. She frowned more intently.

"It wasn't your fault," she hissed, sounding very much like a snake. She always spoke like that when she wanted to get through to Salazar. "That girl was unhappy and prejudiced. Aside from locking her up in chains, there was nothing to be done." She sighed. "She was stupid, to not accept help, and closed-minded too."

Rowena suddenly stood. "Oh my, I'm going to be late!" She quickly flicked her wand at the two piles of books, which levitated off the floor and haphazardly followed the dashing witch down the halls.

Salazar stood, his mood even fouler. He had thought, for just a moment, that perhaps Rowena understood. But to call the girl stupid? No, Ravenclaw was like Gryffindor. The girl lacked what they valued, so they made excuses in their minds to convince themselves they weren't at fault.

Whether or not they were at fault mattered little—the way they were both acting only bolstered Salazar's conviction. When his project was finished, maybe he would finally feel better.

He reached his own classroom, and the buzz of conversation hushed as he strode to the front, dark robes billowing outward. Today, he was teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, specifically how to disarm opponents without injuring them. The students formed groups of four, and he circulated through the room, making sure nobody was doing anything out of the ordinary.

He spied a cluster of four students in the back, heads close together, and almost went over and told them to get back to work before he recognized the girls.

All of them had been friends with the girl who died earlier that day. Salazar could now see how their eyes shimmered with tears and their arms supported one another. He bowed his head and walked back to the front.

It was not his place to bother them right now.

As the lesson went on, he kept glancing back to their group, and his mood grew more morose. The girls did not even try to practice the lesson, and he could not blame them. He decided to dismiss the class early and let the girls go and grieve without his prying eyes. The students filed out quietly.

One of the girls stayed behind, wiping her tears away with a determined look. He watched her as she walked up to him, her back straight.

"Sir," she started, and her voice quivered but refused to crack, "do you know where I can find any books on hexes?"

Salazar lifted an eyebrow. "I have a few I could lend you, Sarah." She was a seventh year, so his books would be right in her league. "You aren't planning to start dueling in the halls, are you?" She was a violent girl, and he wouldn't have put such antics past her.

Sarah snorted. "No." She gave him an appraising look, as if trying to decide whether or not she could divulge a secret to him. She must have thought him trustworthy, for she continued, "I want to get back at Amy's parents."

"Now, Sarah," he began, "they didn't kill Amy—"

"They drove her to kill herself!" Sarah shouted, her words echoed about the classroom. "Those simpering pigs beat her any time she went home on break! They tormented her, told her witches were akin to the devil!" Sarah's cheeks were glistening, and Salazar strode over to her and pulled the distraught young woman against him.

Her arms came up and gripped him as if he was the only thing left in the world, but her sharp words continued. "Those filthy muggles made her so ashamed, so scared of herself that she stopped studying! And then they still hurt her when she told them she wasn't learning anything anymore!" Sarah openly sobbed now, and Salazar was torn between wanting to join her and wanting to go and hex Amy's parents himself. He hadn't known all this.

Sarah suddenly pushed herself away from her professor, rage slashing her face red with anger. "It's those muggles!" she screamed. "If they weren't jealous of us, then Amy wouldn't have been so ashamed and she'd still be here!" She shut her mouth, trembling but regaining control. After a few moments, she sniffled, thanked him for letting her vent, and dashed out, no doubt to find her friends and grieve more.

Salazar sighed and sank into a nearby chair. The problem was, everything Sarah had said was true. Among muggle-born wizards and witches, the death rate was at least 1 in 3, if not higher. The prejudice they experienced at home was simply too great, and death was becoming too common, especially from suicide or murder by the family.

It was why Gryffindor and Ravenclaw both seemed to not care. Of course they cared—but with how common death was, could they really be blamed for growing accustomed to it?

His project couldn't prevent death. It would only create more. But a painless death with no suffering was better than having to watch a child come to class with bruises and slashes from self-abuse, and then witness a death by his or her own hands.

He wished he and his fellow founders could fight for the right to simply _take_ muggle-born children with magic potential away from their parents, but the wizarding authorities had already said no. If only they could see how cruelly some of these children had to live…

But Sarah had said something that made him wonder. Sure, witches and wizards needed to be taught, but why must they teach muggle-born? Salazar stroked his chin. Perhaps that might also be a solution.

With the fear and loathing muggles exhibited towards the magic community, why not educate only those with wizards and witches for parents—those who would not think themselves as evil and unnatural for having their powers, who accepted what they were and wanted to learn?

Yes, perhaps that was the best way to drive death from the school's grounds. He'd have to think about it more. He could stop the project by lessening the heat applied to the egg, slow the creature's development totally until he had fully considered this alternative.

Salazar, totally immersed in his own thoughts, jumped when Helga entered the room and cleared her throat. She sadly smiled at him. "I wanted to find you and offer my condolences," she said, still with that smile on her face.

Salazar blinked. Helga was loyal to the students, and despite never showing much sorrow, Salazar suspected she took each death to heart.

"She was unhappy here, though I wish we could have helped with that." He paused. "Her family disapproved of her being a witch."

Helga frowned. "She could have turned to us, but I suppose she was more loyal to her family. Those are hard bonds to break." Slytherin nodded.

"She was muggle-born. She probably had no choice but to be influenced by her parents' prejudice." He glanced at Helga, then decided to risk it. Test the waters with Hufflepuff, who might be the only teacher to really understand. "Perhaps we shouldn't try to teach the muggle-born. Maybe we should only open the school to purebloods."

Helga's face went from sad to shocked in less than a heartbeat. "No! We cannot give up the hope of winning people over!" She stalked closer to Salazar, eyes burning slightly. "We must keep trying, at the least. If we teach only purebloods, how can we ever change the muggles' perspective of us? How can we remain loyal to the witches and wizards that have lost their lives to make peace between us?"

Salazar could see Helga was thinking of her brother, who had died at the age of twenty while trying to show a town that magic could be useful and good. He healed a boy's broken leg, only to be pelted with stones when his back was turned. The first had struck his head, and he never rose again.

Helga, as a result, opened her arms to anybody—muggle or wizard—with the hope that one day all would be equal. Her loyalty to this notion often made Salazar respect her, but…

"How many lives are worth that?" he quietly asked. "Is it worth every child's life to make the muggles accept us?"

She hesitated. "We have to be loyal to ourselves," she finally said. "And whatever path we choose will have sacrifice."

Salazar glared at her, then pushed her aside and nearly ran back to his secret chambers.

Yes, he understood sacrifice, and he understood her point of view. He understood all their points of view. But when did a point of view become a death knell? When did a person become a statistic?

When was enough really enough?

Gryffindor. Courageous. Willing to take on the whole world. A brilliant leader, headstrong and proud. But colder than a winter's night when faced with weakness.

Ravenclaw. Brilliant, if scatterbrained. Cunning. A philosopher, quick with tongue and thought. But unable to grasp that not everybody could live up to her standards.

Hufflepuff. Steadfast and true. Loyal forever. An honest friend, always willing to help and defend those unable to do so themselves. But too set in her own ideals to see when to help by backing down.

And himself. Slytherin. Proud. Stood by his friends. Achieved his goals, however he could.

But when had his goals outrun his morals? When had death's presence eaten away at him to the point that a student's painless death would be a good thing?

Maybe it was not only the others who were blinded by their flaws, he thought as he again strode through his secret chambers. Maybe he was going mad as well, facing such incredible odds and the possibility that each time he saw a student might be the last time he saw them alive. Maybe…

Too many maybes.

He leaned against the egg, extinguishing the fires and letting the shell cool. The other snakes slithered over to him, and he petted them for comfort.

Salazar decided, then and there, to never again teach a muggle-born. The pain was too great, the price too high. He would try to convince the others to do the same. And if they didn't and he found himself too disgusted to stay, he'd leave behind his project.

The Basilisk.

Able to turn people to stone with its indirect gaze and able to kill with a direct glance.

A painless death to end the suffering of those whom muggles had prejudiced against magic.

_Yes_, thought Salazar Slytherin, _that's what I'll do_.


End file.
